


Unsainted

by AmberXBoone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22523140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberXBoone/pseuds/AmberXBoone
Summary: Takes place after 15x09 (The Trap)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 38





	Unsainted

Dean Winchester smells like whiskey and Purgatory. Half-asleep and half-drunk, he pours the rest of whatever is in his glass down his throat, knocking aside the empty bottles that litter the table in front of us. “Fuck God,” he says. “Fuck everything.” He drops his head down onto the splintered wood, dragging his fingers down his face.

I try to think of something, some lie, that would take away everything he feels, make him numb to the end of everything. Instead, I press my palm into his shoulder, right where he was once scarred from my hands dragging him out of Hell. I tell him I’ll do whatever he needs. He already knows that. Again, he says he’s sorry, sorry for everything, sorry for letting me leave, sorry that he didn’t stop me, sorry for blaming me for the mess in his head.

“I heard your prayer.” I want to forgive him. I want to pretend that everything is fine. But I’m still furious, for putting Mary, Jack, and every single mistake we’ve ever made, on me. There’s still so much anger, deep inside me, and I want to finally take it all out on him. 

But I can’t let him lose his mind again. Because I’m in love with humanity, or something like that.

So I just sit here, watching him maybe drink himself to death, rambling on about how we’re never going to survive this, his legs rubbing against mine under the table when he leans forward. He turns his eyes up to mine. “Cas?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing, never mind.”

“Okay.”

We’ve run through this same dialogue four or five times in the hour and a half since Sam’s gone to sleep. I peel the label off an empty beer bottle, crumble it in my fingers, throw it into a glass and watch it sink down to the bottom. Anything to distract myself from him.

The way I feel inside right now, it isn’t like I’ve felt before. Not with the ones he knows about; April, Meg, Hannah. Not with the ones I’ve never mentioned; Anna, Anael. Not with the ones I can never, ever tell him about; Ruby, some crossroads demon whose name I can’t even remember. Every single inch of me wants him, wants to do things to him that I’ve never even imagined doing to anyone.

And I know he’s had too much to drink, I know it’s been years since he’s been close to anyone. But he turns his face up towards mine, his mouth half open, and in his eyes, I convince myself that he’s begging for me. “I still need to tell you something,” he says.

“You don’t.” I pull him up from the chair and he stumbles back, confused, tired. I tug on his shirt, bring his face closer to mine while backing him into the wall. I shouldn’t want this, I can’t possibly want this, he can’t possibly want this.

I press my lips against his, sliding my tongue past his teeth. He tastes like cheap alcohol and the stubble on his face brushes into my chin. He tries to push me away, for a second, but I take his wrists and hold them down against his sides. I’ve wanted this for too long to let him stop me.

But he gives in, tilts his head backward, letting me run my mouth down his neck. “Cas – I can’t – we can’t…” His voice trails off into my ear. 

“Have you ever?” I let his flannel shirt fall off him, down to the floor. “I mean, like this?”

He doesn’t respond. He kisses me while trying to slip away from me all at the same time, trying to deny what I want while he fumbles around with the button of his jeans. I can feel him, breathing into my mouth, and I can’t think of anything other than the way his fingertips are running along the top of my pants. I let him believe that he has some kind of control over me, even though I could make him do whatever I want, overpower him, use him, like all the other angels would.

I pull his t-shirt over his head, dropping it down by our feet. His jeans are tangled around his ankles, and he looks away from me, up at the ceiling. “I can stop,” I tell him.

“Don’t,” he says.

I move my tongue across his lips, down his chest and his stomach. He clenches his fist in my hair and brings my face back up to his. He unbuttons my shirt, yanks on my tie until it’s loose, tilts my head back and bites lightly into my neck, his mouth finds its way up to my ear, and across my jaw.

He mumbles my name down my throat and digs his fingers into my arms. I can feel him pushing me down, towards the ground, and I feign protest, forcing him back against the wall, holding him completely still. He doesn’t move, doesn’t fight back, he just stands there, his eyes overcome with some emotion I don’t even understand, half his clothes in a pile next to him, the other half down by his feet. “What do you want?” I ask, stepping backward.

“Whatever…whatever you want,” he says, and maybe that’s what he always says. Maybe he’s just always this complicit. Because he’s Dean Winchester; self-loathing, self-sacrificing, suicidal, alcoholic Dean Winchester. And maybe I really should stop.

But I let my lips drift across his collarbone, down past the black ink of the tattoo on his chest, down past scars and yellowing bruises, until I’m on my knees and my face is buried between his legs. I have no idea what I’m doing as I take him into my mouth. He squirms against me, and I slide my hand up between his body and the wall.

He reaches down and holds my head against his thighs, and I cough involuntarily, and roll him around with my tongue. And I know I’m an Angel of the Lord or something, and I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be down here on this cold cement floor, I shouldn’t love the feeling of his hips against my cheeks.

So I stop, and I stand up, and kiss him, so that he tastes himself all over me. He groans and grunts, and I’m afraid he’s going to wake Sam, wake whatever else lives in the walls and halls of this Bunker. “Oh God,” he says.

“Fuck God.” I drag my tie off my neck and pull him away from the wall. I knot the material around his head, gagging his mouth. He lets out a muffled sound and moves his fingers up my face and between my teeth, until I grasp his hands, turn him around, and guide him forward.

He can hardly walk, his jeans still at his ankles, restricting him like a prisoner in chains. I hold his arms so that he’s steady, down the small flight of stairs into the next room, and I push him backward onto the illuminated tabletop, his body a shadow on the map of the Earth that’s lit up behind him, his head somewhere up near Alaska, his feet somewhere near the end of the world. I pull his shoes and his pants off, throwing them onto a chair.

I stand over him, for a minute, maybe longer, and he just lies there, naked, silenced by the material between his teeth. I watch his stomach and chest move up and down while he breathes, I watch his hands move across his waist, down his pelvis. He touches himself, and closes his eyes, like he’s embarrassed that I can tell he wants this just as much as I do.

And I wonder if I’ll ever be forgiven for this, like I’ve been forgiven for every other sin I’ve committed, brought back from death and nothingness. But this is different, and this definitely isn’t part of God’s story.

It should be.

I climb onto him, my trench coat shrouding his body as he pulls me closer by my collar, and our lips touch along the edges of my tie. I ask him if he’s sure, if he’s okay, undoing my belt, unzipping my pants. He nods and turns onto his side. I press my chest into his back, my arm around him. He leads my hand down, he folds my fingers around him, and he leans his head back into my shoulder as I slowly rotate my wrist. 

His cheek brushes across my lips, and he pushes his hips back into mine. And I can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand how hard I am, can’t stand the way his body convulses when he finishes all over the table. I shove myself inside him, pressing him face-down on the table.

And he’s finally all mine. Not Michael’s, not Alastair’s, not Amara’s, not Lisa’s. But maybe, really, he’s always been all mine. He tries to say something, but it’s unintelligible, his mouth still gagged, and I take his hands and hold him down. He’s tight and warm, and his legs are spread out underneath me. I run my tongue along the back of his neck, down to his spine, bringing myself up onto my knees as I move deeper within him.

I pull him up until his back is arched up toward me. I can’t think of anything else other than the way he feels all around me, I can’t hear anything other than the sound of our bodies moving together. He lets me touch him everywhere, lets me do whatever I want to him.

And when I finish, he collapses back onto the table, rolls onto his back, pulls my tie out of his mouth and throws it down onto the ground. He turns his face away from mine. And I fill with panic, because maybe he’s regretting this already, because maybe he never wanted me at all. “Dean…”

He sits up, puts his hands around my neck, and brings me back down onto the table next to him, our legs twisted around each other. And I need him to tell me everything is okay, and instead he just kisses me, his tongue wandering along the roof of my mouth.

I’d do anything for him. Kill anyone. Kill God. Before him, I was obedient, indoctrinated Castiel. And I gave up everything for him.

And, now, finally lying here next to Dean Winchester, his just-fucked body up against mine, I close my eyes and wait for the Empty.


End file.
